


clinical

by kiyala



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Medical Kink, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre intends to enjoy a quiet night to himself, but then Grantaire shows up on his doorstep after a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	clinical

Combeferre enjoys the nights he's not on call, and he can settle on the couch with the novel he's been meaning to finish for a good two months, now. Whenever he makes the time to sit down with it, he gets as far as a few pages before he's interrupted, but this time is different. He's already engrossed in the story, remembering bits and pieces that he's read over the past few weeks and—

The doorbell rings.

_Ah._

For a moment, Combeferre considers ignoring whoever it is at his door and going back to his book. Except then the doorbell rings again and whoever it is and whatever they want, it must be urgent if they're ringing the doorbell twice in less than five seconds. Combeferre sighs, putting his book down with a bookmark in place, and goes to answer the door.

Combeferre likes to think of himself as eloquent and polite, but when he sees Grantaire on his front step—leaning against the brick wall for support and bleeding from his nose and heavily bruised—the first words out of his mouth are, "Oh, jesus fuck."

That makes Grantaire grin, until his split lip reminds him that it's a bad idea. He hisses in pain, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. His knuckles are bruised. His _everything_ is bruised, but at least he doesn't protest when Combeferre gingerly takes him by the elbow and leads him inside. 

He has a first aid kit in the linen closet in the hall. He's had to grab it a few times for Grantaire in the past, but it's Enjolras' fault that he'd ever felt the need to have one so close to the door in the first place. Grantaire obediently hobbles over to one of the stools in Combeferre's kitchen without needing to be told. He's watching silently as Combeferre walks over, putting the first aid kid down on the benchtop.

"Let me guess," Combeferre says, raising an eyebrow, "I should see the other guy?"

"Nah." Grantaire licks the cut on his lip. "The other guy beat the shit out of me."

"I can see that," Combeferre says quietly. He's never seen Grantaire beaten up quite this badly before, and he wants to ask, but he knows that his questions will go unanswered and will only cause Grantaire to withdraw into himself. "This might sting a bit more than usual."

"Hurts more than usual too," Grantaire grunts, but submits to Combeferre's ministratons, biting back his sounds of pain at the dab of antiseptic to his wounds. 

"Joly's got a date night with Bossuet and Musichetta," Grantaire stays quietly, as Combeferre puts a bandage over the cut just above his eyebrow. His gaze doesn't leave Combeferre's face. "Or else I'd be bothering him, instead of you."

Grantaire's come to him that last four times he's needed serious patching up. Granted, they've been spread over three months. "It's like you pick the nights Joly's busy to get yourself beaten up."

That makes Grantaire's cheeks turn even redder than they already are. "It's not—I'm not—"

"I'm kidding," Combeferre murmurs, brushing his thumb over a part of Grantaire's lips that _isn't_ bleeding. He wants to tell Grantaire that he doesn't need an excuse to come here, but he's not sure that's a good idea. They're carefully avoiding the fact that they really need to talk about the time they spend together here and there, that nobody else knows about. 

Grantaire clears his throat, and then he winces. Combeferre frowns, taking half a step back. 

"Take your jacket off. I'm going to do a quick check, just to make sure you haven't broken anything."

Grantaire does, rolling it into a ball and placing it on the benchtop. He watches warily as Combeferre steps closer—closer than he was before. Combeferre puts his best doctor's smile on, calm and reassuring.

"Tell me if anything hurts," he instructs, and places his hands on either side of Grantaire's neck, where it meets his shoulders. 

Grantaire goes very still. Combeferre keeps going, pressing gently, over Grantaire's shoulders and down to his chest. 

"Combeferre." Grantaire catches his hands by the wrists, just as Combeferre's fingers brush over his collarbone. "I'm fine." 

"Your breathing is shallow," Combeferre replies. 

Grantaire makes a face, halfway between embarrassment and frustration. "That… has nothing to do with the fact that I'm in pain." 

"Oh?" Combeferre asks, and then he understands. " _Oh_."

Grantaire hangs his head and his ears are burning bright red. Combeferre sighs quietly, placing two fingers under Grantaire's chin and making him look up.

"Hey." He wets his lips, and offers Grantaire a small smile. "…Do you want me to keep going?"

Grantaire's eyes widen. Combeferre doesn't look away, waiting for an answer. Finally, Grantaire nods. "Uh. If you want—"

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to," Combeferre tells him. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just… keep touching me like this," Grantaire mumbles, and when he looks away this time, Combeferre lets him. "Gentle but—detached. Not like I'm special or anything. Because I'm not."

"R…" Combeferre murmurs in protest, but Grantaire just shakes his head.

"Don't. This is what I want." He swallows hard. "Please."

Combeferre frowns slightly, still trying to understand. "Is this a doctor thing? Do you want me to get my gloves and scrubs?"

"It's—it's a _you_ thing," Grantaire replies. "I don't… I don't know, I haven't actually explored this before. I just want you to touch me."

"Okay." Combeferre breathes. "I can do that. Shall we move to the couch?"

"Just keep it detached, okay?" Grantaire asks, and his mouth twists into a small smile as he adds, "Clinical, if you want." 

"Clinical," Combeferre repeats, sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch. It's difficult to think of Grantaire as just another patient, especially considering the _purpose_ of touching him like this, but he supposes that the bandages and lingering smell of antiseptic helps.

He picks up where he left off, at Grantaire's collarbone. He traces his fingers over the protrusion of bone, fighting the urge to be gentle. He presses down, listens to Grantaire's sharp intake of breath, and hums under his breath. 

"I'm going to take your shirt off, okay? I know you're bruised underneath." 

Grantaire lifts his arms silently, and Combeferre isn't prepared for just how right he is. He's certain that one of the larger bruises on his side came from being kicked and his hand goes to it immediately.

"Fuck," Grantaire mutters, the pain evident in his tone.

"What happened to you?" Combeferre asks quietly, touching Grantaire's side gently, unsurprised by the lack of answer. "Okay, nothing's broken, you're just bruised badly. It's going to hurt for a few days but other than that, you'll be fine."

"Told you I was fine," Grantaire mutters. His breath hitches as Combeferre's fingers skim over his stomach. He doesn't react as overtly to the other bruises, but clears his throat quietly and asks, "Can I take my pants off?"

Combeferre looks up at him, "Do you need my permission?"

It's a genuine question, because he's playing Grantaire's game and figuring out the rules as he goes. When Grantaire blushes uncomfortably, that's all the answer he needs.

"Pants off," Combeferre tells him, in the same tone he uses to speak to his patients. "Keep your underwear on." 

Grantaire gets to his feet, toeing out of his shoes and pulling his jeans down. Combeferre catches him by the back of his knees before he can sit back down. Grantaire's knees are red and a little scraped, like he'd fallen hard on them. He brushes his thumb over one knee and Grantaire tenses, wordlessly reminding Combeferre that he's being _too_ gentle.

"Sit down," Combeferre tells him, his gaze settling on the way Grantaire's erection is straining against his boxers. He's hard himself and right now, he wants nothing more than to make Grantaire come, to pull his boxers down and jerk him off until he's a gasping, moaning mess. 

_Keep it clinical_ , he reminds himself, difficult as that is. Making Grantaire come might be his intent, but Grantaire wants him to act like it is only incidental. For now.

"I'm going to touch you, Grantaire," Combeferre says, keeping his tone even but dropping his usual doctor's tone, because this is not something he would say or do to anybody else. "If that's okay."

"Before you do," Grantaire replies. "Lube?"

Combeferre nods in understanding, going to his bedroom to retrieve his ( _their_ ) bottle. He sets it next to him on the coffee table when he sits down again. He leans over, taking hold of Grantaire's boxers by the elastic and pulling them down, carefully, lifting the waistband over Grantaire's cock. 

Grantaire lifts his hips without needing to be asked. He's watching Combeferre with lidded eyes, his lips parted, wet from unconsciously sucking on them. Combeferre wants to kiss him, but it's going to have to wait. 

He wraps his fingers around Grantaire's erection, running his fingers over it unhurriedly. Grantaire's hips jerk and he lets out a quiet moan. Combeferre isn't sure whether to respond to it or not, so he lets go, reaching for the bottle beside him. 

"Please," Grantaire murmurs under his breath, so quietly that Combeferre nearly misses it. 

Combeferre pulls the table closer to the couch, lifting Grantaire's legs and placing them on either side of him. He rubs the lube onto his hands and circles Grantaire's entrance with his index before sliding it in. 

"I'm just going to make sure you respond appropriately to prostate stimulation," Combeferre says, feeling ridiculous. It's even worse than the time Grantaire had called him in the middle of the night, a little drunk, extremely horny, and pleaded for Combeferre to talk dirty to him. Thankfully, Grantaire responds as well now as he had then, moaning quietly and spreading his legs even further. "I'm going to use two fingers, and then I'm going to stroke you. Understood?"

Grantaire nods frantically. The moment Combeferre has two fingers brushing against Grantaire's prostate, it's like he finally stops holding back. He stops denying what both he and Combeferre need; he grabs Combeferre's wrist, holding it in place as he bucks against the fingers in him. His breath comes in shuddering gasps and his other arm wraps around Combeferre's shoulders, pulling him close until they're pressed together. 

"Tell me what you want," Combeferre murmurs against his lips. He crooks his fingers in Grantaire, enjoys the yelp it earns him. He licks the cut on Grantaire's lip, listens to him hiss. "I want to hear you say it. What do you want?"

"I want to come," Grantaire sobs, curling his fingers into Combeferre's hair. "Combeferre, _Combeferre_ , please, can I—"

" _Yes_." Combeferre kisses him hard, thrusting his fingers and stroking Grantaire in the same rhythm. "Let me see you come."

Grantaire arches, scrabbling at the couch and digging his fingers into the cushions. He comes with a loud, wordless cry, and lies still for a moment, panting as he regains his breath.

"Don't move," he demands, when Combeferre is about to. "Stay there. Stay right there—fuck, I'm going to make up for this okay, I'm going to make up for being so messed up. Come here, I'll take care of you."

He tugs Combeferre's jeans down to his knees, taking his briefs with them. Combeferre takes a deep breath, placing a gentle hand on Grantaire's head. "You don't have to—"

"I _want to_." The words come rushing out of Grantaire's mouth and the look on his face makes Combeferre think that maybe they weren't meant to. Either way, Grantaire owns them. "I always want to make you come, Combeferre, you have no fucking idea." 

Combeferre thinks he might, but he knows better than to contradict Grantaire right now. He only nods, and Grantaire takes hold of Combeferre's cock, pumping. 

"I want you to come on my face," Grantaire's telling him, hand sliding back and forth. "I really want to suck you off but that's going to have to wait for when we're not so worked up. Want to feel you getting hard in my mouth, want you to come right down my throat." 

" _Grantaire_." The fingers Combeferre has in Grantaire's hair tighten and tug a little, and the moan Grantaire lets out is pornographic. 

" _Fuck_ , you're going to do that to me again later too," Grantaire tells him breathlessly. "Just stick a plug in me and pull on my hair until I'm begging for it, begging for you." 

Grantaire's hand hasn't stopped once, and that, combined with the mental images Grantaire is painting for him is enough to send Combeferre over, moaning almost as loudly as Grantaire did. 

Grantaire's face is covered with come, and he looks blissed out, reaching up and smearing it over his cheek with his thumb and then sucking it clean. Combeferre sits back down on the table heavily, his knees no longer able to hold him upright. Grantaire is sitting at the edge of the couch, his eyes bright, his lips swollen, and Combeferre's come covering the purpling bruises. Swearing under his breath, Combeferre leans forward and kisses him hard. 

"You're special, Grantaire," he murmurs as he pulls back. "You're important."

Grantaire's eyes immediately go shuttered, the brightness gone. "Don't start this—"

"You're—different. You're not just like everyone else," Combeferre tries. "Not to me. I'll touch you however you want me to, provided you understand this."

Grantaire's brows draw together. "I'm _nothing special_ , Combeferre." 

"Well, let's put it this way," Combeferre says gently. "There's nobody else I want to do— _any_ of this with. It's my night off, Grantaire. I know I try to be nice to people, but I don't change my plans for just _anyone_."

"Yes you do," Grantaire snorts, but the way he pulls Combeferre back in for a kiss says that he's beginning to understand, and that's a good enough start.


End file.
